


Future Considerations

by provocative_envy



Series: Risk Adjustment [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Romance, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-05 10:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17916629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (30-27-10)@gregargoyle – 11mmalfoy/weasley celly OR gay rom com movie poster????? you decide





	Future Considerations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persea/gifts).



> is my hockey team a perpetual and often agonizing disappointment??? you bet!!! is this how i cope??? haha maybe!!!!

* * *

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 10m

TRADE ALERT: After several days of grueling back-and-forth (incredibly, remarkably, exclusively well-documented by yours truly!) the Kestrels & Falcons have finally pulled the trigger on the Davies/Riddle deal. Buckle up, y'all. This is a blockbuster.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 9m

Montreal receives: Tom Riddle, 2018 1st round pick, 2019 3rd & 4th round picks, Zacharias Smith, Peregrine Derrick, Lucian Bole, and Jack Sloper

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 9m

Dallas receives: Roger Davies, 2018 & 2019 2nd round picks, Terence Higgs, and Miles Bletchley

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 6m

Some (exclusive) thoughts: this is mostly a good deal for both teams, although I do wonder if MTL isn’t going to regret taking on a rapidly ageing Riddle for three more years. The picks are a wash.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 5m

It’s my understanding that along with Davies, DAL was dead set on acquiring roster players, not prospects, which might explain why they had to send such a massive haul back to MTL.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 4m

Smith is barely a fringe fourth-liner, in my opinion, but Sloper & Bole have some middle six upside and Derrick is a former top-10 pick who will likely immediately slot into MTL’s rather anemic defense corps.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 3m

Riddle will play on Draco Malfoy’s wing, which should rightfully terrify most of the eastern conference. “Slippery” is what one GM called the idea of that particular tandem; “annoying” is the word another used. I should add, too, that I’m VERY curious what sort of effect Riddle’s presence – and his infamous personality “quirks” – are going to have on the locker room in MTL.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 2m

Oh! Ronald Weasley is also heading to MTL.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 2m

Not to be confused with his older brothers, DAL signed Ronald as an undrafted free agent a few seasons ago. I imagine he was a bit of a last-minute throw-in, but he’s fast and big (6’4”) and scored a frankly preposterous number of goals for the Falcons’ minor-league affiliate last year. Good shot. Low risk.

 

**Rita Skeeter** @icequeen – 1m

No salary was retained by either team.

 

* * *

 

Ron is yanking at his belt buckle, frowning down at mangled brown suede and fingerprint-splotchy silver, frantically trying to work out why the normally pretty basic task of undressing himself is proving to be such a fucking challenge.

It’s his first real day in the NHL.

It’s his first real _practice_ as an NHL _player_.

And his gear is in the wrong colored bag and there’s a temporary handwritten sign with his name on it taped to the only empty stall in the locker room and he’s jet-lagged and sweaty and kind of hungry and the barista at the café next to his hotel had definitely been making fun of him in French while he waited for his latte and now this _belt_ won’t fucking _come off_ —

“What’s up, losers!” An eerily familiar voice calls out, banging open the door closest to Ron’s stall. The accent is—god, it’s that soppy, fast-slow, utterly indecipherable Quebecois burr that Ron logically understands he’s going to have to get used to but still really, _really_ fucking _loathes_.

It’s delicate.

It’s arrogant.

It’s infuriating.

It’s Draco Malfoy sauntering over, douchey tortoiseshell sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his pointy little nose, a steaming to-go cup of coffee in one hand, his hair silky and straight and bright platinum blond, halfway to his shoulders, mostly tucked behind his ears. He has on baggy cashmere sweatpants, a carnelian-red pullover, and a pair of beige corduroy UGG slippers.

He doesn’t seem to have actually noticed Ron yet. 

In fact, he walks right past Ron, two stalls down, slinging his own bag onto the floor and taking a loud, slurping sip of his coffee. Ron tugs at his belt again, violently attempting to dislodge— _something_ —and Malfoy whips his sunglasses off, shaking out his hair like some kind of _Baywatch_ asshole, glancing over at Ron and then doing a truly, comically theatrical doubletake.

Malfoy’s eyes, an icy, mercurial gray, narrow in suspicion, like Ron isn’t—like they don’t _know_ each other. Vaguely. Sort of. The scouting combine was only five years ago, and Ron sure as shit remembers watching Malfoy swear and whine and flop dramatically onto a stack of slippery blue gym mats after he found out his three and a half chin-ups had been live-streamed to most of North America.

Ron’s hands tighten around his belt buckle.

Malfoy opens his mouth, expression already pinched around the edges with disdain or disbelief or both, his plush, cherry-red lips moving soundlessly for a moment before he jams a hand into the pocket of his pullover, fumbling for his phone. He peers at the screen, scrolling, tapping, gaze periodically darting back up to Ron, like he needs to make absolutely sure he isn’t hallucinating—and then he sniffs and tosses his phone onto his bag and drawls, snidely, like a fucking prick, like a fucking cartoon playground bully—

“ _Weasley_.”

Ron swallows and clumsily fiddles with his belt. He wonders if he’s going to have cut the fucking thing off. “Malfoy,” he grunts. “Hey.”

Malfoy smirks, pale blond eyebrows twitching upwards, and tilts his head to the side, accentuating his long neck, his milky skin, the weird, angular, inexplicably masculine daintiness of his features.

“ _Hey_ ,” he repeats mockingly, and then taps the tip of his tongue against his front teeth. Smoothing. Tasting. “Guess you’re my new rookie, eh?”

 

* * *

 

** INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT **

_Draco Malfoy_

Postgame – Montreal @ Florida – February 19th, 2018

 

**Hey. Draco. You played a great game. Can you tell us a little about what happened in the—**

> “Yeah, I did.”

**Excuse me?**

> “I played a great game. I was agreeing with you.”

**Oh. Uh. Alright. Cool.**

> “Got off to a little bit of a slow start, maybe, but I think I picked it up after we killed that first penalty. Kind of a wake-up call, eh?”

**For sure. Could you, uh, tell us about what happened early on in the third, though? When Zabini left?**

> “Blaise? He blocked a shot with his hand. Broke three fingers. Don’t you already know this? Isn’t it your job to already know this?”

**Well, okay, but I meant more—what happened on the ice after that. In the game.**

> “I scored two goals in four minutes. We won. That’s what happened.”

**Was that, uh—were you surprised? By how quickly you, uh, clicked? With your new line?**

> “With Riddle? No, not really. He’s absolutely elite, you know. A legend. He’s been one of the best players in the league for a long, long time.”

**What about Ron Weasley?**

> “What about him?”

**Well, after Zabini left, Weasley was bumped up to your line—**

> “Oh, was he?”

**Uh. Yeah. Yeah, he was. You—he had the primary assist on your last goal.**

> “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to go over the scoresheet yet.”

**Right, well, yeah, he wrestled the puck off the boards and carved out a ton of space for you in the slot. It was—great. A great pass.**

> “Huh. Interesting.”

**I’m . . . did you not know? Who you were playing with?**

> “What, exactly, are you implying?”

**I’m not. I’m just asking a question.**

> “I suppose I was somewhat surprised, yes. By Weasley. By how he plays.”

**So, you didn’t practice together?**

> “Of course not.”

**With Zabini out for a while—**

> “A few weeks.”

**What?**

> “Blaise is out for a few weeks. That’s hardly a while.”

**I didn’t say—right, uh, with Zabini out for a few weeks, do you think Weasley might play some more on your wing?**

> “Well, someone has to.”

**That’s—yeah. But do you think—**

> “I don’t make the lineups.”

 

* * *

 

FanSided: Bird Watching

_ Photo Gallery 1 – Autograph Signing, Malfoy Motors, Laval (2/27/18) _

[image: Ron Weasley is seated behind a folding card table, smiling uncomfortably at a small cluster of young fans in Kestrels jerseys. He has a Sharpie pen in one hand and an unopened bottle of Evian in the other. “Sorry, I don’t speak French” is scribbled on a blank white nametag sticker affixed to the front of his t-shirt. Draco Malfoy is standing next to him, pulling his own chair back, his face a colorless blur as he turns to speak with Lucius Malfoy, not pictured.]

 

[image: Ron Weasley has his elbows propped on the table, half-covering the remnants of a torn-up Evian label, as he leans forward to sign a glossy promotional poster; he’s glancing to his left, his brow furrowed, his mouth open, looking flustered and irritated at something Draco Malfoy has just said. Malfoy is slouched over a sheet of nametag stickers, smiling smugly as he holds up one that reads, “official français interpreter”.]

 

[image: Ron Weasley is stretching his arms over his head, palms flat, fingers interlocked, biceps straining the seams of his thin blue t-shirt. Draco Malfoy is turned towards him, scowling, his legs spread wide and his tongue curled over his upper lip. On the table, a crinkled, mostly empty water bottle is lying beside a snack-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.]

 

* * *

 

Ron has no fucking idea what he’s drinking, but it tastes like a breath mint dipped in battery acid and then shaken up with absinthe, apple juice, and one of those big blue fake raspberry slushies he used to be able to get at 7-Eleven when 7-Eleven was still a thing he was allowed to have, so it’s mostly okay.

Fine.

_Good_.

He’s almost famous in Montreal, and there’s a certain novelty to that. People show up to morning skate wearing his jersey, and they stop him in grocery store parking lots to ask him to sign their kids’ hockey cards, and they offer to buy him weird craft cocktails at trendy, dimly lit nightclubs where everything’s written in French, even the hand-washing signs in the bathroom, and it’s—okay. It’s _fine_. It’s good. No one’s called him Fred or George or Bill or fucking _Charlie_ since he left Dallas. Which is _better_ than okay. Better than fine. Than good.

It’s fucking _excellent_.

Ron takes another healthy, determined sip of his drink, grimacing at the way it burns the back of his throat. He feels a little like he’s setting his own tonsils on fire, but he also suspects that his situational awareness might be deeply compromised. Like, he’s pretty sure the bar—the heavy, citrus-waxed, incredibly solid cedar bar—is moving.

Waving.

_Undulating_.

“What the _fuck_ are you looking at?” Malfoy suddenly demands, appearing in front of Ron like some kind of spindly blond demon summoned straight from the gates of hell. The top four buttons of his shirt are undone, and his hair is artfully slicked back, and his skin is . . . glistening. Glowing.

Like fucking—like _moonlight_.

“What the fuck are _you_ looking at,” Ron retorts nonsensically, draining his disgusting, judgment-impairing drink and then slamming the miniature martini glass down onto the definitely not-moving bar. He zeroes in on a bowl of fancy gluten-free trail mix, and his stomach rumbles. “Hey, is there food here?”

Malfoy puffs his cheeks out and sighs, long-suffering. “Why are you _always_ hungry?”

“I’m a hockey player.”

“So am I.”

“Not like _me_.”

Malfoy leans sideways into the bar, crossing his arms over his chest, drawing attention to the ornate silver crucifix hanging from his neck like some kind of ridiculous eurotrash homing beacon. His jeans might as well be spray-painted on, and Ron desperately wishes he didn’t keep fucking _noticing_ that.

“What does that mean?” Malfoy asks lightly.

“What do you mean, _what does that mean,_ it means—” Ron flounders, flapping his wrist, accidentally swatting himself in the chin. “It means, like, I’m a _hockey player_ , and you’re—you know.”

Malfoy’s lips—chapped and full and a deep, bruising red, even in the busy, neon-filtered semi-darkness of the club—curve into a smile, so fast and fleeting and fucking _transcendentally_ genuine that Ron’s brain briefly short-circuits. Flat-lines.

“Are you suggesting, Weasley,” Malfoy starts, sounding amused, yeah, but something else, too, something murkier and much harder to identify, “that I’m not a _real_ hockey player?”

Ron wrinkles his nose. “No, no. Obviously—okay, you _play_ hockey, but you’re not a _hockey player_.”

“I see.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy says, too thoughtfully. “You’re giving me a compliment, aren’t you?”

“What?” Ron bleats. “No, I’m fucking _not_.”

“You are, though, because you’re implying that _hockey players_ are—what, huge and disgusting and constantly hungry? Yeah? And if I’m _not_ a hockey player, by your definition, then that’s a compliment. You’ve complimented me, Weasley.”

“No, no, no,” Ron argues, cracking his knuckles, vision swimming as he shakes his head and loses his balance a little, catching himself on the bar, “that’s not it. It’s like—all hockey players play hockey, right, but not everyone who plays hockey is a _hockey player_.”

Malfoy scrubs a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to physically wipe off another one of those smiles. “Oh? Is there a hierarchy, then?”

“Is there a—what?”

“A hierarchy.”

“A _what?”_

“A _hierarchy_ , come on.”

“I don’t . . . could you—just once more, I swear, just—repeat that? Please?”

Malfoy’s nostrils flare. “ _Hierarchy_.”

Ron pauses, squinting. “Man,” he says, whistling lowly, “your accent is fucking _terrible_.”

There’s a split-second of startled, indignant silence, Malfoy’s expression taking on a decidedly pouty edge, the background thrum of talking and giggling and remixed electropop jazz-rap-alt rock bullshit bleeding through the cloud of what Ron belatedly realizes must be _tension,_ fever-hot and Mississippi-thick, hovering between him and Malfoy, cutting them off from the rest of the club.

But then Malfoy is huffing out a laugh, his face relaxing, and pushing himself upright off the bar. “There are vending machines,” he says, gaze gleaming with a razor-sharp hint of a challenge. A dare. “By the coat check. We’d have to go through,” he jerks his chin towards the crowded, slightly foggy dance floor, “all of _that_ to get there, but . . . you’re a hockey player, eh? You’re always hungry.”

It’s a lot of words. A lot of noise. And Ron is just oblivious enough, just drunk enough, to almost miss the _‘we’_ Malfoy slips in, the cleverly camouflaged implication that they’re apparently going to track down these mythical coat check vending machines _together_ , not separately, like they’re partners, like they’re teammates _here_ , too, like they’re on one of those dumb behind-the-scenes off-day scavenger hunts the PR department sets up for them, which is—

Okay.

Fine.

Good.

“Yeah,” Ron hears himself say, nodding slowly, his eyes still glued to Malfoy’s because it’s not like _he’s_ fucking blinking, either. “Yeah, okay, let’s fucking go.”

 

* * *

 

(11:20 pm) _hey_

(11:22 pm) _weasel_

(11:23 pm) _is it true you’re in the room next to mclaggen_

(11:23 pm) **????**

(11:23 pm) **don’t fucking call me that you ferret faced piece of shit**

(11:23 pm) **but yeah**

(11:23 pm) **he’s next door**

(11:24 pm) **why**

(11:27 pm) **????????????????????????????**

(11:28 pm) _sorry i was laughing_

(11:28 pm) _i almost gave myself another hernia_

(11:29 pm) _fun fact though!!!_

(11:29 pm) _it’s about to be 8:30 in montreal_

(11:29 pm) _which is where mclaggen’s girlfriend lives_

(11:30 pm) _just_

(11:30 pm) _something to keep in mind_

(11:30 pm) **what does that mean**

(11:32 pm) **hello**

(11:33 pm) **malfoy**

(11:35 pm) **??????????**

(11:37 pm) **oh my god**

(11:37 pm) **oh FUCK you**

(11:38 pm) **fuck ALL of you**

(11:38 pm) **is this why riddle was smiling like a fucking creep at check in?????????? how does he know about the**

(11:39 pm) **the surround sound phone sex**

(11:40 pm) **HE’S BEEN HERE JUST AS LONG AS I HAVE**

(11:43 pm) **open your fucking door i’m not listening to this**

(11:44 pm) _hahahahahahaha_

(11:44 pm) _no_

(11:44 pm) **malfoy**

(11:45 pm) _say please_

(11:45 pm) **im going to punch you in the dick**

(11:45 pm) _kinky_

(11:46 pm) **open the door**

(11:46 pm) _you fucking neanderthal_

(11:46 pm) _do you really have to knock like that_

 

* * *

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 46m

I didn’t get to it in my last mailbag, but someone did ask me about Montreal’s new-look first line (Riddle-Malfoy-R. Weasley), and now that I’m watching them . . . wow. Surprisingly cohesive.

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 43m

The numbers back me up on that, by the way. They’ve been stellar for MTL. Outscoring and out-chancing their opponents at an absolutely ridiculous rate. They’re really, really dangerous together. [show image]

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 37m

The goal Riddle just scored is a perfect example of why that line seems to be thriving.

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 36m

Malfoy wins the draw and gets the puck to Riddle, whose zone exits are legendary (there’s a reason they call him the “escape artist”), and Weasley follows up along the boards, using his size to throw off BOTH defenders (who try to pinch just a second too late), taking the pass across the slot, slinging it back to Malfoy at the left circle, and then there’s Riddle, waiting by the net to corral the rebound.

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 35m

It’s just a superb use of their individual skill-sets. Opportunistic, intelligent, high-end hockey. They should never be separated.

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (30-27-10)** @gregargoyle - 22m

fuckkkkk me

 

**cautiously optimistic cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 22m

if you wouldn’t let that goal have sex with you you’re a fucking liar

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 21m

how did that even go in

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (30-27-10)** @gregargoyle – 21m

hatty watch for the crypt keeper lmao

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 21m

Wow. WOW. No-look, between-the-legs pass from Weasley, and Riddle scores his second goal of the night.

 

**cautiously optimistic cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 13m

mother of god

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (30-27-10)** @gregargoyle – 12m

pure filth

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 12m

so montreal won the trade right

 

**NHL GIFs** @nhlgifs – 11m

Methinks Draco Malfoy needs to wash his hands after this one, folks: [show video]

 

**cautiously optimistic cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 11m

that’s…………..certainly a celly

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (30-27-10)** @gregargoyle – 11m

malfoy/weasley celly OR gay rom com movie poster????? you decide

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 10m

i don’t even hug my girlfriend like that

 

**Hermione Granger** @hjgstats – 2m

There’s the hat trick. Riddle’s first since 2013. Blistering shot from the point, beautiful set-up by Malfoy and Weasley.

 

**cautiously optimistic cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 1m

lethal fucking weapon holy shit

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (30-27-10)** @gregargoyle – 1m

lmaooooooo it was riddle’s goal and he’s not invited to the celly

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 1m

that pass from malfoy was so sick

 

**Theodore Nott Jr.** @nottadore – 1m

potter is still better

 

* * *

 

Malfoy is Mr. December.

They aren’t calling him that—and _Ron_ certainly isn’t fucking calling him that—but it’s what he is, technically, even if it’s just for the charity calendar the team does every year for the Humane Society.

Malfoy gets set up in one of the upper level rec rooms with an ostentatious marble fireplace and a white faux-fur rug, a mountain of tastefully rumpled chenille blankets and throw pillows and some Kestrels-themed dog toys scattered around for the quaint wicker basket full of squirming 6-week old Dobermans.

Ron tries not to hover too obviously in the doorway.

According to the little card the PR lady had given him, he still has an hour to kill before it’s his turn to have his picture taken. So—he’s killing it. The hour. He’s killing the hour. In this doorway. While Malfoy sits cross-legged in the middle of the elegant hardwood floor, looking askance at the basket of puppies, and the photographer changes out one camera lens for another. There’s an intern somewhere with a bag of Pupperoni, and a glimmer of brisk, late winter sun is streaming in from outside.

It isn’t like Ron’s _alone_.

McLaggen is here, too, cradling a tiny, seemingly delighted Golden Retriever to his chest and using its paw to wave at Malfoy, which is, arguably, to be absolutely fair, much, much, much weirder than whatever it is Ron’s doing. Which is nothing, actually. He isn’t doing _anything_ , he’s just—standing. Waiting. Watching this shitshow unfold by necessity, not by choice. Unlike McLaggen, who doesn’t have any kind of handy, viable excuse for why _he’s_ in the doorway. And who probably _stole_ that fucking dog.

“Alright,” Malfoy murmurs, solemnly peering down at the basket, where one of the Dobermans is scrabbling at the edge, whining to be let out. “Listen to me, all of you. Are you—hey, are you listening to me? Eh?”

Ron’s jaw slowly drops open, all on its fucking own.

“If any of you,” Malfoy continues, pursing his lips, wagging a finger at the puppies, generally _ruining Ron’s life_ , “pee on me? On this sweater? Or lick my face? Yeah? You will _no longer_ be good boys. The best boys. No, you won’t be. Okay? Do we understand each other?”

Ron crosses and uncrosses his arms, rocking back on his heels, a warm fluttering feeling erupting in the pit of his stomach, pleasant and easy and heady and bubbly and overwhelming, too, like the first sip of legitimately, expensively _good_ champagne hitting the tip of his tongue—and it’s begrudging, sure, sneaky and unexpected, definitely, but it’s also—it’s fond.

It’s _affectionate._

Malfoy glances up, then, just as Ron is really beginning to spiral into an entirely reasonable and self-contained fit of existential hysteria, and Ron isn’t sure if Malfoy even realizes that he’s been _staring_ at him, at his slick red mouth and his stupid giraffe neck and all the scrunchy, not-quite stern faces he’s been making at the puppies, but Malfoy fucking smirks, anyway, those cool gray eyes glinting silver in the light, and Ron abruptly feels exposed, truly, transparently _seen_ —because he’s watched Malfoy sneer and scoff and belittle and berate, watched him grin after a goal and sulk after a loss and choke on his own bright, infectious laughter whenever McLaggen says something particularly idiotic, whenever Riddle does something particularly unnerving—but Malfoy never looks at them, looks at anyone, in quite the same way he looks at Ron, like he’s looking at Ron right now, and that’s—

Well.

That’s happening, Ron thinks faintly.

That’s maybe _been_ happening.

 

* * *

 

**gregargoyle** : listen

**gregargoyle** : fuck montreal forever

**gregargoyle** : but they’ve been hella fun to watch lately

**inVINCEable** : I KNOW

**inVINCEable** : i didn’t want to be the one to say it

**nottadore** : they’ve been alright

**gregargoyle** : some of the goals they’ve been scoring???? fucking

**gregargoyle** : trick shot shootout shit

**inVINCEable** : malfoy especially

**gregargoyle** : where the fuck did weasley even come from

**inVINCEable** : he was legit buried on the falcons farm team

**gregargoyle** : with harry potter????

**gregargoyle** : that’s wild

**gregargoyle** : never even heard of him until now

**inVINCEable** : yeah

**inVINCEable** : wild

**inVINCEable** : is it just me though

**inVINCEable** : or like

**inVINCEable** : are malfoy and weasley……….

**gregargoyle** : wait the celly thing????

**inVINCEable** : man

**inVINCEable** : they’re so long

**inVINCEable** : like

**inVINCEable** : i’m not crazy am i

**inVINCEable** : they’re really fucking over the top long

**gregargoyle** : slow motion long

**gregargoyle** : every time they score i feel like i’m watching one of those youtube videos of like….soldiers??? coming home from a war??? at the airport???

**gregargoyle** : its bizarre for sure

**nottadore** : _[has shared a video]_

**nottadore** : idk i think i dig the height difference

**nottadore** : that little neck squeeze

**nottadore** : it’s hard to tell because they’re yelling so much but their mouths might actually touch

**nottadore** : oh hey in this one malfoy jumps into weasley’s arms

**nottadore** : full frontal

**nottadore** : legs around the waist

**nottadore** : ballet leap

**nottadore** : EMBRACE

**nottadore** : _[has shared a video]_

**nottadore** : just bros being bros am i right guys

**gregargoyle** : _[has left the chat]_

**inVINCEable** : _[has left the chat]_

 

* * *

 

** INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT **

_Draco Malfoy_

Postgame – Philadelphia @ Montreal – March 25th, 2018

 

**Draco. Quite a game for you – you scored your hundredth career goal on the same night your grandfather’s number was finally retired. Is that legacy particularly meaningful to you?**

> “What kind of question is that?”

**Excuse me?**

> “My grandfather’s been dead for—look, it’s—yeah, it’s nice to look up and see a Malfoy sweater in the rafters, but it’s not my number, or my sweater, so, yeah, it’s just . . . nice. Of the organization. He won them how many Cups? It’s about time, is all I’m saying.”

**Oh. Um. Wow. Care to elaborate on that?**

> “On what?”

**On your comment about it being “about time” for—**

> “Oh, my god. No. Ask me something else. My father is definitely lurking somewhere, he always is, you can talk to him about the retirement. He’s ecstatic about it. He’ll probably give you a car.”

**Um. Right. Okay. So, um, a lot of goals scored tonight. By your line, in particular.**

> “Yeah.”

**You guys have really been lighting it up. Just—electric. The chemistry.**

> “Yeah. It’s been fun.”

**Just—filling the scoresheet. Goals. Assists. Hits, too.**

> “Yeah, I mean—Ron—Weasley—he had that really pretty goal in the second, the wraparound? Just—squeezed it past the post, tucked it right behind the goalie. Really threaded the needle. He has fantastic hands.”

**And that was—you had an assist on that, didn’t you?**

> “What? Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

**Um, and you also—you scored after that, too. On your next shift.**

> “Yeah.”

**Um. So.**

> “Yeah, Ron’s second goal, though, in the third—the breakaway? I kind of just tossed the puck up the ice, you know, I was just trying to clear the zone, but Ron—he’s so fast, isn’t he? For such a big guy? And—his hands. Jesus. I mentioned that already, I think, but—you saw the goal, right? Unreal.”

**Yeah. Yeah, he’s . . . definitely playing well. Your hundredth goal, though, that’s—that’s an impressive milestone.**

> “What? Oh. Yeah.”

**Um. How did that—um. How did that feel?**

> “I mean, I didn’t really know when I was on the ice, but they wrapped the puck up for me a little bit ago, so. I’ll put it with the others. Yeah. It’s nice.”

 

* * *

 

Ron wakes up to loud, furious pounding on his hotel room door.

“What the _fuck,_ ” he mutters, rubbing at his chin. It takes him a second longer to roll out of bed, yawn into his forearm, and shuffle groggily to the door. “Seriously, what the—”

It’s Malfoy, because of course it’s Malfoy, and he’s haughty and pink-cheeked and has snow flaking off the ends of his eyelashes, seeping into the hood of his sweatshirt, like he’s been outside even though its four in the _fucking_ afternoon and they’re all supposed to be _napping,_ and he marches into the room, brushing past Ron, without even bothering to wait for Ron to _invite_ him.

“Fuck,” Ron finishes lamely, letting the door swing shut.

Malfoy stops next to the foot of the bed, hesitates, and then spins around to pin Ron with a bafflingly intense glare. “ _Weasley_.”

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Ron automatically retorts, venturing closer, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. His t-shirt is too tight. It’s team-issued, but he has a sinking, sneaking suspicion that it’s not actually his. “What do you—”

“No,” Malfoy interrupts. His eyes are wide, wild, and his chest is heaving. He has his custom Italian leather loafers on his feet. They’re ruined. Visibly wet. No socks, either. His skinny, hilariously hairless ankles are peeking out from the zippered bottoms of his jeans. “No, I have something—I have something to _say_. To you.”

Ron pauses. “Okay?”

Malfoy doesn’t move. Or speak. Or react at all, honestly. His expression is—closed off. Uncertain. Thoughtful, but with an undercurrent of frantic, restless energy that Ron recognizes from mid-game arguments on the bench when they’re losing.

“Hey, are you okay?” Ron tries, wincing. “You seem—”

Malfoy cuts Ron off with a warbling, impatient chuckle, raking his fingers through his too-long hair, and then shakes his head. Squares his shoulders. Takes the two or three steps over to Ron, eliminating the distance between them, and again, without bothering to wait for Ron to react—

He lunges.

He _pounces_.

He tackles Ron backwards, onto the bed, and then swoops down, fusing their mouths together, and it’s—

It’s a kiss.

It’s a _chance_.

One of Malfoy’s hands is firmly cupping Ron’s jaw, the other bunched up in his t-shirt, and his skin is ice-cold, his lips almost impossibly soft, and he somehow weighs even less than he looks like he does. He’s sprawled out on top of Ron, bony fucking elbows digging into Ron’s lower abdomen, bony fucking _knees_ digging into Ron’s hips—but there’s friction, there’s potential, there’s the whiny little huffing sound Malfoy makes when Ron’s tongue flicks out, swipes over the curve of his upper lip, when Ron tightens his grip on Draco’s neck, squeezes, slows the kiss down, changes the angle, and there’s Draco’s breath hitching, his pulse rabbiting and his muscles twitching, his knees finally relaxing around Ron’s hips and his fingers finally unclenching from around Ron’s t-shirt and the tension in his body finally, almost completely evaporating and—

Draco melts, just a little.

Ron’s heart skips a beat.

 

* * *

 

(10:21 pm) _riddle is such a fucking headcase_

(10:21 pm) **lol**

(10:22 pm) _what_

(10:22 pm) _why is that funny_

(10:24 pm) **just thinking about when mclaggen put shaving cream in riddles jock**

(10:24 pm) **and we all thought we were gonna have to report a homicide**

(10:25 pm) **what a fucking lunatic**

(10:25 pm) **like i’ve never been more relieved to be on the same team as someone before**

(10:26 pm) _he’s in the room next to mine_

(10:26 pm) _he gave me a curfew_

(10:26 pm) **lmao**

(10:27 pm) **what does that even mean**

(10:27 pm) _“lights out by 1030 draco”_

(10:27 pm) _“we have a connecting door draco i’ll KNOW”_

(10:29 pm) **he calls you draco**

(10:29 pm) _yeah why_

(10:30 pm) _ohh are you jealous???_

(10:31 pm) **of the 40 year old psychopath who acts like your dad? nah**

(10:31 pm) _ooooh_

(10:31 pm) _my dad huh_

(10:31 pm) _kinky_

(10:33 pm) **wow**

(10:33 pm) **thanks for the nightmare fuel**

(10:36 pm) _lol_

(10:37 pm) _open your fucking door you ingrate_

(10:37 pm) **no**

(10:37 pm) _what if i say please_

(10:37 pm) **you love saying please**

(10:38 pm) _not in this context_

(10:38 pm) **“context” yeah ok**

(10:39 pm) _please open the door_

(10:39 pm) **no**

(10:39 pm) _i went to the gift shop i have snacks_

(10:40 pm) **still no**

(10:40 pm) _why?????_

(10:41 pm) **BECAUSE YOU HAVE A KEY**

(10:41 pm) **I GAVE YOU MY EXTRA KEY**

(10:42 pm) _lol_

(10:42 pm) _you could have just said that_

(10:42 pm) _now who’s being dramatic_

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come join me in hell](http://www.provocative-envy.tumblr.com)


End file.
